


El Rey de Amarillo

by AddioKira



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Gen, True Detective AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14982758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddioKira/pseuds/AddioKira
Summary: True Detective!AU. Jimmy and Mike are APD detectives. What starts off as a run-of-the-mill cartel murder turns into a series of mysterious and gruesome deaths that stretch a seasoned cop and his unpredictable partner to their limits.





	El Rey de Amarillo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemini_melia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemini_melia/gifts).



> This is a request from 2016's Blue Christmeth that I desperately wanted to do but needed more time to do it. Consider this a True Detective inspired AU rather than a true crossover. I'm not even sure where I want to go with it, but writing it's been a lot of fun, so please enjoy!
> 
> The rating may change as I continue.
> 
> All inaccuracies about police work are my own fault.

“No,” is what I say when I see him, sitting outside Major’s office, jiggling one leg like an antsy kid at church.

Major raises one eyebrow, like he can’t believe I just said no to him. Might be because I haven’t said the word no to him in the twenty-odd years I worked under him, but like they say, there’s a first time for everything.

“Mike,” Major says.

“No,” I repeat.

“You need a partner, Mike.”

“Worked the last case fine without one.”

“You didn’t get a solve.”

“I got a solve.”

“She shot herself through the eye before you got the arrest.”

“So I didn’t get the arrest. I got the solve.”

Major puffs his cheeks. “We were short. Now we got a guy. You’re taking him.”

I look through the crack in the closed blinds, his other leg jiggling now. His suit is a shit-colored nightmare.

“Not this guy.”

“ _ Yes _ this guy.” Major leans back like he’s about to make a speech. “Listen Mike, I know for a fact that you and Scotty were planning on retiring in three months.”

“Yeah. Well, some things don’t work out the way we plan them.”

Major has the good grace not to flinch at this, but his scowl furrows into his jawline. “You still retiring in three months, fine. You’re out. Show the kid the ropes before you go. You stick around…?”

I don’t react, and let the unspoken question dangle. Funny how most people can’t stand it. 

Major puffs again. “You stick around, we figure out if you and the kid work out. If not, we do a shuffle. If yes? Who knows.”

I glance back at the kid through the crack in the blinds. He’s not a kid, not really, but he looks like a kid to me. Most people look like kids to me these days. He’s doodling in a notebook now, one leg still jiggling.

I give up. I didn’t come into this office expecting to win.

“You owe me.” 

Major tries not to sigh his relief. “Macallan twelve-year do you?”

“I don’t drink.” The response comes automatically, and doesn’t spring saliva in the corners of my jaw, anticipating the astringent burn of that first swallow. It’s a peculiar kind of gratitude, one that I don’t particularly enjoy feeling.

“Right,” says Major, and he’s embarrassed.

“Have anything for me, then?” I ask. I can’t bring myself to say “us,” to pull that jiggling kid into my work, not yet.

“Matter of fact, I do,” Major says, punching a key on his computer keyboard. Whatever he thinks is going to happen doesn’t, and he scowls again, having to go back and click with his mouse, which isn’t as dramatic. A sheet of paper comes through the printer, then another.

“Just came in,” Major says. “Body out in the desert. Not much info yet, but looks like cartel.”

I try not to roll my eyes. I hate cartel cases. They insulate, turn in on themselves like bees generating heat in their center, enough to burn whatever predator’s dumb enough to try to go after the organization. It’s rare to get a solve, and even when you do, it’s because the cartel itself let the poor bastard stumble into your net. Then again, it’s a good rookie case - let them bash their heads against a wall enough times, they get used to disappointment.

“Fine,” I say, taking the sheets.

“Oh, you’re not gonna fight me on this one?” Major asks. He knows how much I hate cartel.

“You knocked the fight right outta me,” I say. I have one hand on the doorknob before I stop. “One question.”

“Yeah.”

“How long did the kid spend in uniform before he got to homicide?”

Major doesn’t answer, so I turn around. Whatever answer he’s gonna give me, I know I’m not gonna like.

“Two years,” says Major.

I can feel my eyes narrow, my face close up as I turn to face Major. “No.”

“Mike,” Major says, in a clipped voice. “Do. Not. Ask.”

I contemplate asking anyway. I worked five years in blue before I moved up to investigations, and I never knew anyone - no matter how good at the job - who came up in less than three. Two years means someone’s above him, pulling him up the ranks. And whoever that someone is, I don’t want to get tangled up in his or her shit.

I consider fighting again, saying ‘no’ again, trying anything to get myself out of the shit. But I walked right into this, it looks like. And it’ll be three months at least before I can wriggle my way out. 

“Okay,” I say, turn, and open the office door.

He leaps to his feet as soon as the door opens, thrusting out one hand. “Hi! James McGill. Jimmy.”

I don’t take the hand, and after a silence, he puts it away. “Well James McGill Jimmy, strap in. We’re going to the desert.”

  
  


“Man,” McGill says as I steer us down the highway. “I didn’t think I’d get on a case this fast. So much of the job is just filling out forms, ya know? I figured I wouldn’t have to do so much of that as a D, you get floaters to order around, do the dirty work, am I right?”

He finishes with a chuckle that’s meant to be conspiratorial. When I don’t respond he starts up again.

“So, uh, did he tell you what happened, huh? The Major? Is it man? Woman?” He grimaces. “Aw, don’t tell me kid, right? What’s some kid doing out in the desert anyway? Kidnapping?”

“Do you want to talk, or do you want to investigate a homicide?” I ask, just to shut him up.

“Uh-” McGill says.

“Because if you want to talk, you can at least put that mouth of yours to use. The preliminary report’s on the dash. Read it to me.”

“Uh-” McGill says again, grabbing the pages.

“Not the whole thing,” I warn before he starts up. “The important parts.”

“Okay, uh. Male, caucasian. Between fifteen and twenty-two - Jesus, that’s young.”

“Spare me the commentary. And word of advice, if you want to keep your job, keep your feelings to yourself. You’re a D now. You don’t get feelings, you get solves.”

“Yeah, sorry. About that.” McGill wipes his mouth with one hand, grimacing like he’s tasted something rotten. Kid’s so wet behind the ears, it’ll be a miracle if he lasts a day on the squad.

“Uh.” he continues. “No ID, not yet, they’re working on it. Nothing on him. Uh, no clothes even. Just tied up, wrists and ankles, with rope and an unusual structure on his head.”

“Unusual structure,” I repeat, getting a feel for the shape of those words. “Not a hat.”

“Uh - says ‘structure,’ not hat. Nothing else about it.”

“Does it say cause of death?”

“The pathologist hasn’t-”

“I know the pathologist hasn’t determined yet, I’m asking if there’s an obvious cause of death.”

“Ah.” He flips the sheets, turns them over. “Nothing yet. But-”

“But nothing,” I interrupt. “We’ll just go see.”

McGill opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again and sits back, reviewing the sheets with a frown. Well. At least the kid can learn.

Turning off the paved road into the packed earth of the desert makes the Crown Vic jitter and scutter under us. The suspension’s lousy, the noise is a dull roar. It’s ten miles out to the scene, but it’s easy to spot on the horizon - a desert juniper that erupts from the ground in a snarl of twisting limbs, only tiny spots of needles to show it’s still living. As we close in, we can spot the uniforms milling around, waiting for the Ds to come in and do the real work.

I stop at a reasonable distance, near the other units and swing out. “Okay,” I tell McGill, “go look. But do. Not. Touch.”

“Jeez, come on,” McGill whines, indignant. “What do you think, I’ve never been on a murder scene before?

“I’m sure I couldn’t say what I think,” I respond, then leave the kid to find out who used to be in charge here.

The first uniform who trots up to me is Garcia, and thank Christ for that. He’s steady, stolid, quiet unless something needs to be said. He ought to have moved up the ranks years ago, and I can’t help wishing it was him as my partner instead of the twitchy nobody trying not to lose his lunch as he approaches the juniper.

Garcia briefs me on the details of how the body was found - offroading rich boys in an open sided jeep - the diameter of the perimeter he’s placed around the scene, the logistics for the grid search he knows I’m about to order. I keep one ear on him and one eye on McGill as he examines the scene. He’s being careful - slow on approach, watching where he puts his feet - but it’s too careful. It’s unstudied, pregnant with the fear of fucking up.

“Pathologist is on the way,” Garcia continues.

“Who’s the pathologist?”

“Núñez.”

“Good. Let me know when she gets here. I’m going over. Let me know when you have the search set up."

The juniper’s on a hillock, and I feel my knees pop as I climb the shallow gradient. The corpse is finally clear in my view, a slight figure squatting on its knees, its hands lifted. As I get closer, I can see it clearly - the hands tied to a low, twisting branch of the juniper, the head bowed, and something topping its crown. Maybe “unusual structure” isn’t the term I’d use, but it’s close. It’s gnarled and twisted like the branches above it, but bleached white.

“McGill,” I bark. “What do you see?”

“Ah,” McGill says, and when he reaches to scratch the back of his head, I can see the sweat stain that soaked through his suit jacket. “Shallow stab wounds to the abdomen, ligature marks and bruising on the neck, consistent with, uh, asphyxiation.”

“What’s this - what would you call it, a crown?”

McGill grimaces, squinting. “A crown, yeah, I guess. It’s bone. Bones.”

“Bones,” I repeat, then look again, and realize he’s right. It’s not just a single structure, but multiple bones, large and small, assembled into an interwoven crown and placed on the corpse’s bowed head. “Huh. Animal do you think?”

“I dunno,” says McGill, looking queasy. “Look there.”

He points to the bone at the front of the crown, high on the corpse’s forehead. It glints in the sun, and I have to dip my head to see it properly. It’s a jaw bone with a gold filling in one of the molars.

“We’ll have Núñez test it,” I say.

“Yeah,” says McGill, shoving his hair back. It flops forward immediately, damp with sweat. “And, uh, I might have found an obvious cause of death.”

“Oh?”

“They couldn’t see it, you kinda hafta - look if you bend over him like - no, come over here and do it.”

I walk to where McGill’s standing, and he shifts aside. “Bend like that,” he says, motioning with his hands but not touching.

I bend, and can’t help the slow intake of air as I see what he’s pointing at.

“See?” says McGill. “They cut out his heart.”

A gulping sound, and then McGill bends over with his hands on his knees, and vomits.

  
  


Driving back to the station, McGill is blessedly silent, leaning his head on an arm propped against the window of the shitty repurposed Crown Vic from the motorpool. Núñez has taken charge of the corpse, and has promised to call me as soon as she gets the ID, which will have to do for now. I pull into one of the free spaces in the garage, and stop the car, but neither of us moves to get out.

“McGill.”

“Hm?” McGill starts, as though he hadn’t realized we’d stopped.

“You asked if I thought whether you’d been on a murder scene before.”

“Uh-” he says.

“I don’t think you have.”

He shifts, squirms. “What are you talking about, I’ve-”

“Have you been on a murder scene? Ever?”

“Well, I mean, it would depend on your definition of ‘been,’ and possibly ‘scene,’ but I’ll have you know-”

“Even as a floater?”

“Well - I never was a floater.”

I take in a breath, filling my lungs with the sudden silence. “Okay. So you’ve never been on a scene, you’ve never worked a homicide. You compromise the scene. So what that tells me is, you need some practice. How about you go in and start the report.”

“Yeah, sure,” McGill says, seeming relieved at getting off the hook. We both swing out of the Crown Vic, but McGill looks back at me when I head to the personal lot instead of the station.

“Aren’t you - ah-”

“No. I’m leaving.”

“What?” McGill squawks. “Aren’t you gonna start your own write-up?”

“And deprive you of all that valuable experience? Nah.” I start walking toward my car. “Anyway,” I toss back at McGill’s gawp. “I have a dinner date. I’ll call you in an hour and a half.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t  _ like _ it,” says my dinner date, as she pushes a stalk of broccoli to the edge of her plate.

“Come on baby,” I say. “You want to eat your broccoli to get strong like Pop-Pop, huh?”

Kaylee grimaces, and halfheartedly stabs the broccoli but doesn’t raise it to her mouth. “Does that mean I have to be a police?”

“No, honey, you can be whatever you want. What do you want to be?”

“A dinosaur.”

“Now that is an interesting career choice. Okay, dinosaurs eat trees, right? Pretend you’re a dinosaur and take three big bites of broccoli with me - then you’re done. Okay?”

“Just three? Promise?”

“Promise. What dinosaur are you?”

“Ummmm… a  Parasaurolophus!”

“Well that is quite a dinosaur.”

“What are you gonna be, Pop-Pop?”

“Uh… I’ll be a T-Rex.”

Kaylee snorts at my obvious stupidity. “Pop- _ Pahhhp _ , T-Rexes are meat eaters!”

“Oh, my mistake! Well I had some meat already, this T-Rex wants some trees for dessert. Are you ready?”

“Okayyy.” 

“One!” I say, and Kaylee pops her broccoli in her mouth, grimacing as she chews. “Good job, okay, two!” Kaylee’s more reluctant on the second bite, so I pop my eyes out at her in as silly a face I can make while chewing my own stalk of broccoli. “All set? Annnnd… three!” Kaylee chomps the broccoli with a vengeance, gnashing it with open jaws in an attempt to get it down faster. “Mouth closed, sweetheart,” I say, once I’ve swallowed my own bite. “All done? Good job.”

I take Kaylee’s plate and my own to the sink and start rinsing. The front door rattles, and Stacey comes in. “Kaylee?” she calls from the front hall.

“Mom!” Kaylee cries, and starts up before sitting back down. “Um - may I be excused, please?” 

“Excellent manners. You may.”

Kaylee pops up and runs to where Stacey’s just emerged in the kitchen doorway to hug her around the thighs.

“Hey,” I say to Stacey. “I made you a plate. Want it heated up?”

“Oh - thanks, Mike. No, cold is fine.” She takes the plate, then slumps into her chair, popping her heels out of her shoes one at a time. She picks at a piece of steak - nothing special, just a flank - while Kaylee circles around her with a piece of art she made at school.

“Hey, Kaylee honey, mom wants to eat her dinner, huh? Why don’t you go watch TV?”

“Thank you,” Stacey says, accepting the artwork, then glancing up at me. “Yeah, go watch TV honey, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Kaylee seems reluctant, and looks up at me with her wide blue eyes - they could break your heart, those eyes. She walks out of the room, and in a moment I hear the TV turned on to a cartoon show.

“Sorry Stacey,” I say. “Looks like I’m not gonna be able to pick Kaylee up from daycare for a while.”

“Oh jeez,” Stacey says. “Another case?”

“Big one, looks like. Not sure when it’ll end.”

“But you’re still on schedule? To retire?” Stacey tries to stop her eyes from pleading, and it’s an admirable effort.

“Yeah, just three more months and my pension bumps up. Then I’m out. Promise.”

Stacey sighs. “I don’t mean to be a nag.”

“You’re not a nag, I’m happy to help.”

“I know. It’ll just be so much easier to have you around. Kaylee loves it. You know that.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that. I’m looking forward to it.”

Stacey pops a piece of steak into her mouth instead and chews. “But you’ll miss the job.”

“Truth is, I’m getting pretty tired of the job.”

“You’d still miss it.”

“It won’t miss me.”

That’s when my work phone rings. “Sorry, I gotta get that,” I say, and step into the hall before Stacey can give me that look of hers - that one that says  _ the job again. The job. _

“Ehrmantraut.”

“Hey Mike.”

“Hey yourself, Núñez. I was wondering when I was gonna hear from you. Didn’t think it would be this fast.”

“Yeah well, the vic’s in the system. We got him on fingerprints. I called as soon as we had the ID.”

“Okay, hit me.”

“Jesse Bruce Pinkman, twenty years old. He’s been in on narcotics. I guess he was cooking - your basic crank.”

“Cooking for whom?”

“Far as we can find so far, nobody. He was a small-timer, home lab, small distribution. Narcotics had their eye on him for a potential sting, but he wasn’t important enough to get on their timeline for the next couple months.”

“Still, a cook - could be he was competition to the cartel.”

“I guess, if they wanted to go after a little fish. Still - a cartel, they do a gang-style execution, leave the guy on the street, warn his buddies to stop production. This?” Núñez gives a breathy little snort. “They left him there for a reason.”

“And what do you think that is?”

“Well, it’s just speculation, but he was there about two days before he was found. They didn’t want him to surface right away. Then there’s the heart. You know how hard it is to cut a heart out of a human body?”

“Thankfully I don’t.”

“Well trust me when I say it isn’t easy. They took their time on him. And Mike-”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t finished the pathology but - I think he was alive when they started to cut.”

Twenty years old. I close my eyes for one brief moment and try to think back to twenty. I can’t do it.

“Okay. When’s your report gonna be finished?”

“We’re pulling an all nighter on this one - should be in the can in the morning.”

“Okay. In that case, I’m going to get a night’s sleep. Call McGill - he’s in the office, have him put everything you know for sure in the report. I’ll be in first thing - you call me when you’re done, no matter what time.”

“Sure.”

“You’re a peach.”

“You’re a tease. Bye.”

I click off, then walk back to the kitchen. Stacey is absently gnawing on a piece of steak, but doesn’t seem to taste it.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

Stacey seems to wake a little. “So soon?”

“Yeah. Work. You gonna be okay for tomorrow?”

“I think so. I’ll work something out with Evvie next store, she usually comes through in a pinch.”

“Okay.” But it seems lousy to go just like that, so I say “Not too much longer, kid. Hang in there.”

Stacey looks at me, and her eyes are hollow. “Yeah.” she says. “Thanks Mike, I mean it.”

I leave through the living room, where Kaylee’s absorbed in her cartoon, and clutching the soft plush pig I got her a few weeks back. It’s out of battery - I should swing by the drug store next time I come over. “See you, sweetie.”

“Bye, Pop-Pop,” she says, not tearing her eyes from the screen. I kiss her on the top of the head and see myself out.

It starts up, then, the rage. It starts in the shoulders and drops low to the gut, cold and hardening like a cramp.

Shouldn’t be me in there. Shouldn’t be me.

It isn’t any good. I walk to the car slowly, feeling the pins and needles prick up and down my arms.

About halfway home I figure Núñez had enough time to give McGill the next set of information for the report, so I call him myself, on the office phone to make sure he’s still there.

“McGill,” he answers on the first ring, and I got to hand it to him, at least he stuck around.

“You got Núñez’s ID?”

“Yeah. Revising the report now.” Some testiness to it - he’ll be there another couple hours and he knows it.

“Meantime get a couple floaters, see if they can start locating KAs. I want a list when I get in, first thing. And get me an interview room for nine.”

“Wait - you got a suspect?”

“No. I got someone I want to talk to, is all. First thing in the morning, have a floater get Ignacio Varga, V-A-R-G-A.”

“But-” 

“Just get him. Address is in my rolodex. Case meeting after the interview. Got it?”

McGill doesn’t answer.

“McGill. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, but Mike- you know…”

I don’t recall asking him to call me Mike, but I keep quiet.

“This has happened before,” he finally says. “And - it’ll happen again.”

I don’t know why this makes my skin crackle, but it does. “Now what makes you say that?”

“I dunno. Listen, I’m gonna get going on this stuff - I gotta go.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up. In the hum of the highway, the crackling keeps on. And the rage with it, running down my forearms, making me clench the steering wheel tight. Two years in blue, and this clown makes D, talking cryptic shit and compromising the scene. And Matty - he never even got out of blue. And now he’s six months in the ground. Buried in his uniform, the way he wanted it.

“Fuck,” is all I can say about that. And then keep driving and get ready to face another day without my son.

 

* * *

 

“I want a lawyer,” says Ignacio.

“Come on,” I say. Neither of us drops our gaze.

“I want a lawyer.”

“We only want to ask you some questions.”

“Yeah. Just a couple questions, help us out. We’re the good guys! Right?”

I don’t answer.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Ignacio says, leaning back in his chair. “Lawyer.”

“Hey, c’mon buddy,” McGill says chummily. “You’re not under arrest or anything here.”

Unfortunately for McGill, Ignacio doesn’t do chummy.

“Oh, I’m not under arrest, huh? So I can go?” He moves his hands up the arms of his chair as if to push himself up.

“No, you’re not under arrest,” I say. “But I would  _ appreciate _ it very much if you would assist us by answering some questions.”

We stare at each other for a long silence, and I half think he really is going to walk out of the interview room right up until he starts easing himself back down into his chair.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll answer a few questions.” When McGill leans forward in his seat, Igancio snaps “ _with_ a lawyer.”

“All right,” I say. “Interview with Ignacio Varga terminated on the grounds that he has requested legal representation.” I nod to McGill, who scrambles to turn off the camera. “Give us your lawyer’s information, and we’ll call him.”

Ignacio smirks for the first time since we entered the interview room. “Her.”   
  


She clicks into the interview room on a pair of heels just a shade too high to be called sensible, the last three drags of her morning’s cigarette trailing behind her like a scarf. She’s blonde in a blue suit, not cold - I never saw the sense in calling a woman cold the way some men do - but coolly competent. She glances at me, at McGill, and dismisses us as unworthy of further scrutiny.

“I’d like a moment with my client, please.”

McGill scrambles out of his seat so fast he nearly tips it over. “Here! Allow me,” he says in a transparent attempt to recover, holding out the chair for her to sit. I can see him open his mouth to say something else, so I beat him to it. 

“Okay McGill, let’s go.”

McGill comes willingly enough, but cranes his head to see in the tiny window as I shut the door.

“Je-esus, who is  _ that _ \- do you know her?”

“By reputation. Never seen her represent anyone in a homicide before.”

“Okay, but who  _ is _ she?” McGill’s bouncing on his toes with impatience. It’s almost funny.

“Boy, are you out of your depth. Kimberly Wexler, junior partner, Hamlin and Hamlin, LLP.”

“Junior partner, huh? Wonder how she got partner so young.”

“Yeah, well, what I wonder is, how’s a gang banger like Ignacio Varga able to hire a top class lawyer like Ms. Kim Wexler, Esquire if-you-please?”

“Maybe she’s… pro bono, something like that?”

“No, no, no. I see her with the Albuquerque heavy hitters, the businessmen getting dinged for tax evasion, the CEOs of corporations doing a recall, that kind of thing. She does not belong in that room, with that man. So why is she there?”

McGill doesn’t have an answer for this, not that I’d listen if he did. So we wait until Ms. Wexler opens the interview room door and says “okay, we’re ready.”

 

“Okay,” I say, hitting the record button. “Second attempt interview, Ignacio Varga. Michael Ehrmantraut and James McGill interviewing; Ms. Kimberly Wexler present as legal counsel for Mr. Varga. Ignacio, you ready to go?

“Sure,” he says with a smirk that I ignore.

I don’t speak right away. Instead, I hold Ignacio’s gaze for about ten seconds, to let him know I’m not fooling around. He knows, yeah, but after playing us with his fancy legal counsel, it’s better to establish dominance early. Ignacio doesn’t falter, but I get the sense he knows I’m serious this morning.

“Jesse Bruce Pinkman.” I begin.

Ignacio pretends to be confused, his eyes flicking to Ms. Wexler, then back to me. It’s a good act, but he’s broken eye contact first. “Yeah?”

“Do you know him?”

Ignacio hesitates, preparing to lie, then thinking better of it.

“Ignacio, I know for a fact that you know every cook in the ABQ. Do you know Jesse Pinkman?”

Ignacio snaps his eyes back to mine. “I don’t know him,” he says, “but I know of him.”

"Please tell us what you know  _ of _ him.”

Ignacio isn’t happy, and I’m sure it’s because he doesn’t know why I’m asking. Well, good.

“Jesse Pinkman’s… a cook, yeah. Mid-level shit. Not that I have personal knowledge,” he corrects, quickly, “just what I heard on the street. Goes by Cap’n Cook. Got a gringo gimmick, chili powder in the crank. Bush league.”

“So he doesn’t have a patron?”

“Nah. No organization.”

“So how does he sell?”

Ignacio flares his nostrils as he considers how to respond. “There’s a guy, sort of took him on as a side project.”

“Who?”

Ignacio doesn’t answer for a long moment, and Ms. Wexler butts in. “If you don’t want to answer the question, go ahead and say so.” She gives me an acid look that she slides to McGill once she sees I’ve registered it.

“Before you decide that,” I interject, “I want you to remember the squad I work on. Do you remember which squad I work on?”

It’s too condescending a question for Ignacio’s taste, and he scowls. Good. A man gets angry enough, he forgets to be careful. “Yeah,” he snaps. “I remember.”

“Is it narcotics?”

“No.”

“What squad do I work on, Ignacio?”

The rage is bubbling under his skin. “Homicide.”

“Okay. So I’ll ask you again before you decide how you want to answer. Who’s the guy who sold for Pinkman?”

Ignacio takes three full breaths before answering. “His name on the street’s Krazy-8. I don’t know his real name.”

That’s a lie, but I let it slide. “What do you know?”

“I know he bought from some independent cooks, funneled it through Tuco. Shitty stuff, to sell to crankheads who couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Tuco?”

“Yeah, but strictly anonymous. Pinkman wouldn’t know about Tuco, and vice-versa. It was Krazy-8’s side biz. Long as Tuco got his share, he’d start no beef.”

“Ah,” I say, leaning back like I got all the answers I need. “So what happened to Krazy-8’s side business lately?”

Ignacio glares. “I don’t know.”

“He keep working with Pinkman?”

“I don’t know.”

“He get another contact in the org?”

“I don’t know.”

Ms. Wexler’s looking like she’ll yell ‘objection’ any second, so I decide to relax, take another line.

“You ever seen Pinkman?”

Ignacio pauses again. “Yeah. Once.”

“Recently?”

A shrug. “Maybe three months ago. Why?”

“Why did you see him?”

“Tuco asked me to check out his lab-” Ignacio starts, but Ms. Wexler interrupts him.

“This is getting a little intimate to Mr. Varga’s own activities,” she says. “Before we get into those, may I ask why you’re asking him these questions?”

“I would like to know, please, if he could recognize Mr. Pinkman if I gave him a photograph,” I say, with exaggerated politeness. 

Ms. Wexler glares through the faux-cordiality. “Okay,” she says, “you can ask him whether he could recognize Mr. Pinkman if you gave him a photograph.” She turns to Ignacio. “I would advise you to limit your answer to Detective Ehrmantraut’s question.”

Ignacio’s expression closes. I got him to let up his guard, he knows it, and he’s not happy. He looks back at me, wary. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I’d recognize him.”

“Well isn’t that swell. McGill, why don’t you show Mr. Varga a photograph?”

McGill starts, like he wasn’t expecting me to ask him to do anything - even though I warned him what I was going to do. I feel fury rise into my throat, and swallow it down. McGill shuffles with the papers he has in his folder. When I see the corner of the photo emerge, I snatch it, unwilling to let him fumble.

“Here,” I say, and thrust the photo in Ignacio’s face.

Núñez was the one who snapped the photo, and it’s a beaut, as far as these things go. Full color, good light, a full view of Pinkman’s face and the purple-black bruising around the neck. She’d had someone lift him in order to get the chest - and its gaping wound - in full view.

Wexler leans in to see the photo, and I see the color drain from her face. Other than that, she holds still - doesn’t even swallow. This is what makes me decide I like her.

Ignacio, on the other hand, lets his jaw go slack and jerks back in shock. I see his lips move before I register what he says. It’s in a whisper, so I don’t catch it all, but it sounds like “ah, Maria.” Then, as though he’s just realized he’s spoken, he clamps his jaw tight. “I’m done,” he says.

“Okay,” says Ms. Wexler, and snaps her notebook cover shut.

“Mr. Varga,” I say, “I strongly advise you-”

“No,” Ignacio interrupts. “I said I’m done.”

“Now wait a minute-” Jimmy says, getting out of his chair with a scrape. But before he’s even got himself upright, Ms. Wexler’s drawn herself to her not-inconsiderable height, and stepped forward around the table until she’s a mere inch from McGill’s flustered face.

“Now  _ you _ wait a minute,” she snaps. “Mr. Varga has not been placed under arrest, nor has he been read his rights. If you want to place him under arrest, you may certainly do so, but until the  _ moment _ you do, he is free to go as he pleases. And I suggest you think  _ very  _ hard about exactly what charge you will accuse my client of if you decide to arrest him. Because if you don’t? I am going to nail you to the wall.”

McGill’s sweating freely, weakly raising his hands in protestation. “Whoa now, nobody said-”

“Shut up,” I interrupt. “Ms. Wexler’s right.”

All three of them stare at me like I just started speaking in tongues.

“Mr. Varga,” I say, “You’re free to go if you so choose.”

Ignacio scrapes his own chair back, the sound like feedback off an amp.

“But before you go,” I continue, “I’m gonna ask you to repeat what you said when you saw that photograph. Slowly and clearly, so I can hear.”

Ignacio doesn’t say a word. He slowly, deliberately shakes his head, turning it first to one side, then to the other. Then he walks to the door without a glance back. Ms. Wexler follows him, but not without giving me and McGill both a stare meant to freeze the blood. McGill and I watch them go, and let the door swing shut behind them.

“Interview with Ignacio Varga terminated at… nine forty-two, at his request,” I say, and snap the video recorder off. “McGill?”

McGill’s still staring out the arrowslit window of the interview room door, watching as Ms. Wexler turns the corner and vanishes from sight. “Yeah?”

“You speak Spanish?”

“A little? I guess. Why?”

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off the window, so I step up and snap my fingers in his face, hating myself a little for how good it feels when he jerks himself to attention. “Ignacio said something when I showed him that photo. You heard him?”

“Not really. Listen, you sure you want to let that guy go? He seems like-”

“He’s not involved. It was a Hail Mary. And it’s not gonna be the last one we have to pull on this case, if it goes the way I think it’s gonna. But I want to know what he said.”

“I couldn’t hear it. Sounded like… Mario?”

“I thought ‘Maria.’”

“Nah, definite - definitely an ‘o’ at the end. Mario.”

“Well, it’s a start. Run the name, see who you can come up with after the case meeting. Look for anyone involved in a cartel.”

McGill splutters. “What? Every single hit that comes-”

“You want to be a murder D? You have to do murder D work. Now come on. Case meeting. Your job is to stand behind me and look imposing. Think you can handle that?”

Between Ms. Wexler and me, McGill is in a froth. His jaw juts, and he’s breathing hard through his nose. But as I watch, he pulls himself back, steadies his breathing. “Yeah,” he says, “I can handle it.”

 

* * *

 

Fuck Ehrmantraut. Fuck him right to hell.

It’s almost nine on a Friday, and it’s been over twelve hours of grunt work, wrangling KAs and scheduling interviews. This shit is floater work - but of course Mr. Clean decides he has to have a real D calling the shots. Right. Because all the floaters are sure to respect the guy who’s on his second day on the job.

I get up to give another name to the floater on our case, only to find he’s already gone home. Without telling me. For fuck’s sake.

I slump back into my chair - no lumbar support, by the way, absolutely none, and only get the chance to hold my head in my hands for a moment before the damn phone rings. Again. 

I snatch it up. “Yeah?”

“Hey Jimmy, don’t bite my head off.”

“Hey, Ern!” Ernie’s voice is a sudden bright point in the evening. 

“I, uh, got what you asked for.”

I whip around, cupping the receiver in my hand - no chance I’m letting anyone listen to what Ern has to say.

“I got the plate,” he says.

“And you got someone on it?” I say, excitement making me forget to be quiet.

Ernie’s voice is a low, desperate whisper. “Yeah buddy, but listen - his shift ends in fifteen minutes and if I don’t pull him off, he’s gonna start asking-”

“Yeah, it’s okay Ern, pull him off - just give me the address. Her house?

“Nah. Restaurant. Here.”

Ernie rattles the name and the address off, and I recognize it - one of the nicer downtown places that serves shit like fish fillets baked in paper for thirty bucks a pop. A place Chuck 

_ would have liked? _

would like.

Ernie’s voice at the end of the line, interrupting my racing thoughts. “Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“If this is for your investigation, man, why not have one of your guys run it?”

“Oh - it’s fine, it’s fine. Just the lead D doesn’t exactly approve of my unorthodox methods, you get the picture?”

“Right,” Ernie says, and I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me, but doesn’t really want to know, either. “Second day on the job and you’re causing trouble - why am I not surprised.”

“Yeah - listen, I gotta-”

“Go, go, man.”

“I’ll buy you a beer once this is done.”

“You’re buying me a sixer for pulling this off. Bye.”

I slam down the phone and grab my jacket. “Okay fellas, you guys just keep - doing what you’re doing, I’m just gonna check up on a lead,” I shout to no one in particular. “Carry on, carry on - I’ll be right back, keep fighting the good fight-” until I’m out the door, then take off running toward the parking lot. I don’t make it very far - my lower back’s screaming from that damn chair, and I never had good knees.

Driving over, I’m barely aware of the constant patter of monologue I’m muttering low in my throat. Terrible lines, like “oh, I just stopped in on my way from work,” and “fancy meeting you here,” and worst of all, “come here often?” It’s the kind of place a hot-shot lawyer would go often, and with a sinking sensation in my gut I realize how unlikely it is that I’ll catch my target alone. Co-worker, most likely. Client.

_ But maybe- _

The restaurant parking lot is only moderately filled, and the tightness in my chest loosens a fraction when I see the plate, screwed tight to a black Mitsubishi Eclipse. Still here. Okay.

Coming through the door, ignoring the hostess’s plasticine smile, scanning the place. Tables first, but I don’t see what I’m looking for - not in a group, not as a pair. And then the bar, and it’s like I’m dreaming. The lone figure, poised over a cocktail glass, the blond ponytail curled to her shoulder blades, sitting completely alone.

“Okay,” I whisper, still ignoring the hostess’s attempts to secure me a table. “Charm. Y’know - insouciance.” And I stride to the bar, no idea what the hell I’m going to say, but certain that whatever it is, I’m going to say it.

“He-ey, I thought I recognized you,” and she turns around, ponytail swinging over one shoulder, her face closed, suspicious. “James McGill?”

“Oh-.” Recognition enters her face, but the suspicion doesn’t leave. “Hello, Detective.”

“Please - Jimmy,” I say, taking the seat to her right without asking. “That was some interrogation today, huh?”

Her eyes narrow. “Listen-” she starts, and I have to cut her off now or risk her running out the door.

“No, sorry, sorry, I’m not here to talk shop.”

A lifted eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

Shit. “No reason, just - was driving by on my way home, thought I’d have a drink.”

“Oh! So, your investigation is-”

“It’s - in good hands, progressing, but hey, even the best of us have to get a little R & R, you know what I mean? Anyway I thought we weren’t talking shop.”

She tries not to smile, but she smiles anyway, and I know I’m in. “How about you - long day, huh? What’cha drinking?”

She touches the rim of her cocktail glass - empty except for a garnish nestled at the bottom. “I was just about to-”

“Come on. One drink. On me.”

She hesitates, considers.

“All right,” she says, then whips her head around to the bartender, so her ponytail misses my nose by an inch. No perfume, just clean hair, and I want to take it in both hands, feel it slip between my fingers. “The same,” she says, and it takes me a second to remember I have to order. 

“Uh - for me too,” I say. “What is it?”

She smiles, for real this time, not hesitant. “Rob Roy,” she says, then with two fingers held parallel and straight, she fishes the garnish out of her glass. It’s a maraschino cherry, the real kind, not the electric red candied crap that comes in jars from the grocery store. This one’s oxblood red and looks like a clot - so much so that when she places it between her teeth and crunches down, it’s all I can do not to gag. 

It’s only after I take my first too-large gulp of cocktail, the astringency of the scotch and ghostly sweetness of the cherry washing back to my throat, that I can turn to her and say “so.”

“So,” Kim repeats. “I can’t talk about my work, and you can’t talk about your work. So why not tell me what you wanted to talk to me about so bad that you had me tailed?”

I sputter into my drink. “What? I would  _ never _ \- that would be a  _ flagrant _ misappropriation of city resources, and I’ll have you know-”

“Okay,” Kim says, turning back to her glass, and taking a sip. “If you want to do it the hard way.”

“Listen,” I say, flailing at a recovery. “Even if I had committed an egregious act of malfeasance, which I am  _ not _ saying I did-”

“Oh, of course not,” says Kim.

“My only interest in this extremely hypothetical situation would be - wanting to buy you a drink. And just, talk.”

Kim does a funny, almost too-obvious double take, jerking her head back and blinking, as though I’ve shocked her. “Well. Mission accomplished.”

“I mean, except for the, y’know, talking part,” I say.

“You seem to be gifted enough at that. You go first.”

“Okay, uh, I understand you’re a partner at Hamlin and Hamlin?”

“Well. Junior partner.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m nonequity.”

“What does that-”

“I don’t get a profit share. So less money. Basically it’s a fancy title on a salary a little higher than an associate’s. That’s all."

I shrug. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“Not until you realize it’s a holding pen for people the powers-that-be don’t want to let go of, but don’t want to give any real responsibility to,” Kim says, and her mouth makes a bitter little purse over the rim of her glass.

“Bummer.” 

“Little bit. What about you - when did you make detective?”

“Ah. Yesterday.”

This interests Kim enough that she sets down her glass in genuine surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah - I’m the new guy. And trust me, Mike’s letting me feel it.”

“Wow,” Kim says. “How long’ve you been at APD?”

“Couple months,” I say, and this surprises her further.

“Wait -  _ how _ long have you-”

“Couple months at APD,” I correct. “But I’ve been a cop for longer. I just moved here from Chicago. Well - Cicero, but it’s close enough to be Chicago to anyone around here.”

“So, what brings you to Albuquerque?”

“I, um, got some family here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My brother.”

“Ah,” Kim says, nodding in a way that shows me she’s half pretending to be interested. “Is he a detective too?”

“Well no. He’s a lawyer.”

There’s a subtle shift to the way Kim’s sitting, a slight twitch to her shoulder blades that tells me she’s just become fully interested in the conversation. “A lawyer?”

“Yeah. You ever met him? Charles McGill. Chuck.”

“Chuck,” she says, rolling the name in her mouth. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean, I understand, the ABQ’s not exactly a small town-”

“Yeah, it’s not as big as it seems,” Kim says. “Where does he work?”

“See, now that’s the problem. I don’t know.”

“What, he never told you?”

“He hasn’t told me much of anything for… about five years now?”

“Five years?” Kim repeats, incredulous.

“Yeah. He moved out here, seemed to be doing well, then all of the sudden - poof. Vanished.”

“And you’re looking for him.”

I shrug. “That’s the plan. Haven’t gotten too far, though. His old firm, they told me he was humming along - made partner, even, and not just junior partner either. And one day he gave his notice, and the next day, all his things were cleared out. He was gone.”

“And he didn’t leave-”

“Any forwarding information, or anything, nope. And no internet traces either - now firms have all those fancy websites with their headshots on ‘em, but you search him, and there’s just nothing.”

“Wow,” Kim says, interested enough that she’s forgotten her half-finished drink.

“Yeah, kicker is,” I say, starting to enjoy myself and feeling a little sick about it at the same time, “I thought he’d come home. Our mom died, few months back.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, ah. It was rough. But I thought for sure, no matter where he was, he’d come home for that.”

“And he didn’t?”

“No-show.”

“Did you file a missing persons report?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve been an APD cop for months now. I know what they’ve got in their system to find him, and it isn’t much. Next thing to do is call the feds, but I haven’t gotten to the point where I’m that worried, Chuck was always good at taking care of himself. But I want to find him. You know, in case he’s on some tropical island somewhere and hasn’t gotten the word about Mom. He needs to know.”

Kim nods soberly at this. “So that’s why you had me tailed?”

“What?  _ No- _ ”

Kim smirks. “Come on. You were dying to tell me all this.”

I take a gulp of my cocktail. “I remembered Chuck once mentioning a Howard Hamlin when he first moved here. I thought maybe-”

“Want me to ask him?”

“Would you do that?”

“I could maybe try to sneak it into a conversation.”

“You’re an angel.”

She gives a dry laugh. “First time I’ve heard that one.”

“Now that I can’t believe.”

“Here, give me your phone.”

“Ok - personal phone though, I can’t have you calling my work number, you know how it is.”

“Yeah.” She bends over my phone, holding hers in the other hand, and when she gives mine back, her number’s saved into it.

“Well, I never expected to get a pretty girl’s number like this.”

“Hm,” she says, amused. “This’d better not be, like, a scam or anything, because I’ll have you know, I know a good lawyer.”

“Well, now I do too. I mean - a little anyway. We didn’t get the chance to talk about you much - you want another one?”

“Nope,” Kim says, and drains the last of her cocktail, tossing the cherry back and chewing. “Two’s my limit. I have an early morning.”

“Well thanks,” I say, and flag the bartender for the check. “You know, I didn’t just have you tailed to ask you about Chuck - I really did want to buy you that drink.”

“ _ Allegedly _ tailed.”

“Oof - you got me,” I say, fake clutching my chest.

I walk her to her car, and when she turns around to say “thanks for an interesting night,” I almost get my hopes up for a kiss - just a peck on the cheek or something, nothing serious. But she gets into her car without even a handshake, and leaves me standing.

I watch her turn into the street, waiting for the moment when I lose her, when her tail lights dissolve into a sea of similar lights, when she blends into the texture of the city surrounding me. And when it happens, I look up at the barely limned silhouettes of the buildings, the windows backlit, the signs of people going about their evenings. I can’t imagine anyone has anything to worry about the way I do.

“C’mon Chuck,” I mutter, without really realizing I’m doing it. “Come home.”


End file.
